


Eternity in Eight Strokes

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Dirty Talk, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Comeplay, Control, Frottage, Hannibal Rising References, Hannibal and Will are switches, Hannigram - Freeform, Hate Sex, M/M, Murder Husbands, Porn with Feelings, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, talk about violent sex, the one where Will bangs Hannibal on his own fussy dinner table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Eight times Hannibal thought he saw eternity while held in the inconvenient death grip of compassion for his beloved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In his youth, Hannibal Lecter was introduced to Japanese culture through his uncle's wife, Lady Murasaki. When he takes up painting watercolors in France, in a Japanese style popular during the time, he uses a kanji, or traditional character called "Eternity in Eight Strokes" as his signature. The title of this story comes from this chapter of Hannibal's life in the brilliant Thomas Harris novel, Hannibal Rising.

A fire roars in the hearth of the room he considers more library than office. Hannibal stands before it. He soaks in the warmth. He swirls single malt in his glass and contemplates the moment.

He knows when he thinks back on it, he will remember snow. Perpetual snow. He will imagine it settling in Will’s hair like a delicate crown of fireflies. There is both terror and comfort in the cold; how he knows it well. It is a bizarre mixing of past and present as he scries what is yet to come. 

He tells Jack he will help good Will Graham see the cannibal’s face. Already, he knows with unwavering certainty how it will all end. There is no doubt and there are no shadows. Yet, several trains have taken off from the station in his mind and he follows them all from a high platform in his mind. He has already decided, but he is still curious to where precisely the other trains will travel.

He turns from the fire. Will has stopped pacing at last and studies the spines along a shelf of books. Hannibal approaches him. “Have you warmed yourself, Will?”

“Yes, thank you,” Will says with his trademark, pinched smile. “It’s nice in here. You have a great collection.”

“It is nice with you here,” Hannibal says silkily. He sets his scotch down on a shelf beside Will and steps closer to him, almost backing him into the rolling ladder. Will is momentarily surprised at the sudden proximity and he catches his breath with a rise of his shoulders and an arch of his back that is almost as lovely as dance. “Shhhh, don’t fret,” Hannibal lilts and puts a hand on Will’s arm. His firm touch stills the younger man. For someone who does anything he can to avoid eye contact, Will does not look away. Hannibal opens his face to Will as he allows himself to stretch his own corneas against Will’s wild blue.

The future is entirely opaque. There is only this moment. This here. This now. 

Hannibal’s fingers press slightly into the meat of Will’s arm. It is firm, although not as large as Hannibal’s. He slides his hand down over Will’s elbow, his forearm, lets his fingers encircle his wrist like a bracelet of flesh and bone. Will’s breathing quickens, but he does not move away and there is a sense of melting beneath Hannibal’s touch, much as the snow has already melted from their hair and clothes. He takes Will’s hand and brings it to his lips. Hannibal kisses each of Will’s fingers, then opens his palm so he can place it on his cheek.

They stand, their breath now blazing in their chests. Hannibal leans his face against Will’s hand and after a time, Will finds a muscle memory from perhaps another life, to stroke Hannibal’s cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal does not want Alana Bloom. 

He takes her because she is there. He takes her because he could not have Will. He takes her because he needs an alibi. He takes her because Will wants her and he wants to hurt Will. 

It is a killing of several birds with one stone sort of situation. 

He does not need to smile at how clever he is as he bends her over his arm and kisses her hard. He opens her dress for access to her breasts which he bites and sucks until she sings like his theremin. 

In his bed, he strokes her small body until she practically begs for him. When he slips on a condom, he strokes some extra lube over himself and then uses what is left on his fingers to play with her ass. She demures. He tries again and she pushes his fingers away with a bit more force. It only makes him want it more. It would be so hot and tight, and for a moment, he could pretend. . . He angles himself at her puckered hole and she wiggles to engulf him in her pussy. 

Hannibal is not a man who would use force against a woman. That would be unspeakably rude; so he manages with what he is offered and fucks her well. She is easy to please. She wraps her legs around his shoulders and comes quickly and easily for him. He finishes and gets her some wine. 

After she’s fallen asleep, he lies and watches the flickering candle flames lick at the air. 

Emptiness has never felt so heavy. The bars of Will’s prison cell stack one on top of another and practically crush his chest. He knows if he closed his eyes he would see Will there, scowling at him, counting his transgressions with angry little blinks and frowns. It’s almost adorably laughable. He tells himself he does not care. He tells himself he treated himself to Alana because Will couldn’t and he was having her on Will’s behalf. He could care less what Will feels or thinks, but he does not close his eyes. 

He makes sure Alana is sleeping soundly and wipes her cup clean. He stares at her for a moment thinking the selfish, little prude might not make a terrible snack. She’s lean and healthy and in her current torpor, her meat would not frighten. 

But there is work to be done, so he carefully dresses himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a very sneaky and very, very dirty Hannibal visits Will in the prison for the criminally insane.

Hannibal senses the heat of Will’s rage before he even enters the room. It is like walking through a heated tunnel that grows progressively hotter as he closes in upon Will.

He thanks the guard.

“We will be fine,” he says with a professional smile and the guard takes his leave, but only after assuring Hannibal help will be available at just the press of a button.

Hannibal steps into the room.

Across the table, Will seethes.

The door closes with an appealing click. Hannibal raises the warm, golden bank of his eyes to meet the cool, drenching wave of Will’s stare.

“It would seem I’ve been granted a stay of execution,” Hannibal says. “The signature you were so eager to sign on my death certificate will have to wait, I’m afraid.”

“I know you are the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will hisses across the table.

“You know what I’ve allowed you to know,” Hannibal returns smoothly. There is no surveillance in the tiny conference rooms reserved for lawyers and prisoners. Hannibal has been allowed to reserve this cubicle at the discretion of Jack Crawford and the FBI, begging closure, answers, clues.

Anything.

“What do you want with me now, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal ignores the attempted insult of his formal title, removes his overcoat and drapes it over the cold, metal chair back. He takes off his jacket and places it atop his overcoat. He then unbuttons and rolls his sleeves up, ever so slightly, just enough so Will can see the scars. 

“The stitches are out, but the scars seem to be healing strangely. It seems I will wear your tattoo of violence on my delicate flesh. How do you like that?” Hannibal sits in the chair he cushioned with coats. He turns his arms this way and that as though he is inspecting them, and then he puts his arms on the table in front of Will. Much to his pleasure, he finds Will cannot look away.

“What were you thinking?” Will asks, entranced by the raised, silver scars that travel like, centipedes along Hannibal’s pale wrists.

“Uh uh uh,” Hannibal tuts. Will regards him with an azure flash of anger. “You did not answer my question, Will. I asked how you liked it that I would be marked by you for all eternity? I’ll answer your question if you answer mine, but only if you answer mine first, Will.” A beat of silence. “You’ll do that? Answer my question? And then, only then, I will answer yours.”

Another beat.

Will clears his throat. “I like it,” he grumbles. “In fact, I like it more than a little bit.”

“A tasty thought for you to suck on at night? Like a dog with a marrow bone?” Hannibal suggests. Already, he is hard. How he yearns as his mouth makes words.

“Yes,” Will’s voice is no more than a shiver. His eyes trace the scars and he swallows repeatedly. With relish, Hannibal watches the bob of Will’s throat as he swallows, and finds it reminiscent of a fishing lure floating on a agitated river. “Yes,” Will rasps again from his throat, which is quite dry, despite Hannibal’s image of the wet, wet river.

“Ah, very good,” Hannibal says at a more normal volume. “Now then, your question was what? Oh, yes, what was I thinking, as I teetered, strung up, sliced, bleeding out, hung within seconds of my life? You would like to know about what flashed through the slick, pinkish-gray coils of my mind?”

“Yes.”

“Mmmh,” Hannibal closes his eyes and thinks back to the night of his near death experience. He remembers in lurid detail every moment, as it is seared into his brain with the chemical surge of trauma.

However one moment eclipses the others and it is in this moment which Hannibal choses to float and drift.

_From the unstable bucket upon which he is perched, he sees straight into the window in the deep end of the swimming pool in which he had just been doing his laps. No one else is present. It is a round window, round like an eye, and the water ripples bright blue, blue like the eyes of a particular FBI consultant at who’s mercy, or lack there of, he knows he currently dangles. The thought makes his heart soar with pride as he stares into the gleaming, cyan eye before him. He wants to die with Will’s name in his mouth, but he is also slightly annoyed that Will was not executing this plan personally. His thoughts loop in this endless figure eight in his mind._

“The thoughts of a dying man are a jumble of pieces from many different puzzles,” Hannibal says. He pushes his lips out in a bit of a pout. He moves his arms slightly forward on the table toward where Will’s hands are cuffed to a large iron ring. Will extends his fingers and stretches them as far as they will go. They do not quite reach Hannibal’s wrists. In a huff of frustration, he clenches his fingers back into fists.

“So, you’re not going to answer my question after all?”

“Does that bother you, Will? I think it bothers you.”

“It bothers me that I am sitting on this side of the table while you roam about the county killing people.”

“Oh, are you jealous at the notion of me making murder without you? I must admit I find your version of the green eyed monster arousing. Truly fuckable. Even now, I am straining against my trousers. If only you could reach across and feel, Will, how hard I am, for you, you’d realize you’ve no reason to be jealous.” The hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck register the increase in temperature in the small room. He inhales and catches not only the scent of his own arousal, but Will’s as well. Hannibal shifts slightly and feels his erection rub against the silk of his boxers. “But you cannot reach and feel, can you, Will?” Hannibal looks down at the ring to which Will is chained.

“You smug son of a bitch,” Will utters.

“Ah, you’re angry. I could feel your anger before I even entered this particular wing of the facility. But tell me, about what exactly are you so disgruntled?” Hannibal’s voice is melodic. He plays with Will and it tantalizes them both. It is a bizarre sort of foreplay, but it is theirs. “Are you perturbed that you did not succeed in your assignation attempt on me, or are you just grumpy you cannot free yourself at this very moment to take me in the mad heat you are feeling, the haze of lust in which you have never felt more yourself?”

“You’re a malignant narcissist, Dr. Lecter. Only you could fantasize I’d want you.”

“ _Intelligent sociopath_ , I believe was the terminology you wanted used.”

“Semantics,” Will drawls.

Undeterred by Will’s damp response, Hannibal continues. “Rage. Violence. They are ever so erotic, are they not? Tell me, Will. Tell me how you would take me. Would you force my face down in the table and spread my ass wide for your pleasure, thrust yourself in with no more lube than a little spit on your hand, or maybe even nothing at all? Would you make me feel you hard and rough enough to make me bleed a bit? Or would you prefer to feel our cocks rub against each other and our bellies as we held one another around the neck. Humans are the only species who delight in mating stomach to stomach, after all. Would you like that, Will? To come as you feel me come over you, while I gaze into your eyes with endless devotion? Can you imagine how hot and hard I would come for you, Will? Oh, I would. I would. . . mmmmh. . . Or would you force me to my knees and have me suck you deep into my throat? Would you attempt to choke me with the flood of your semen? Tell me, what would be your desire? How would you exact the violence you feel for me with your sex?”

“No,” Will gasps. His hands fist around the metal ring.

“You don’t want to share your fantasy?”

“No.”

“Very well. Then I shall have to concoct my own,” Hannibal continues, undeterred. “There was a man in Paris who would expose himself on the trains late at night in the 1920’s. He was rumored to be very beautiful and coveted by the ladies, and even some men, however he’d not let any touch him. Just the act of revealing himself to the watchful eye opposite him would be enough to bring him to . . . completion. . . without even touching himself, or having been touched by another. Can you imagine such a sensation, Will? To feel your seed spurt skyward from merely an adoring gaze? How wild and free he must have felt. How impetuously lovely.” As he speaks, Hannibal throbs in his pants. He watches Will’s pupils dilate with untold desire.

“Why do you share this?” Will sighs, more resigned now than angry.

“Because, Will, while I cannot presume to tell you precisely what I was thinking at the moment you tried to kill me that night, I can describe to you how I am feeling at the intersection of this precise moment, here and now.” Hannibal pushes back just slightly from the table and unzips. He watches Will’s face as he frees himself from his fine, lambswool pants. His cock quivers beneath the aqua gaze with which Will drenches him. “That’s it,” he whispers.

Will does not look away.

Even when he glances, wild and open mouthed up to Hannibal’s face, his eyes resume their post on Hannibal’s pulsating member. Hannibal puts his hands on the arms of the chair and licks his lips. He gives only the slightest wiggle of his hips which makes his cock throb in the air around it. The reddened tip of his head glistens.

“Fuck,” Will whispers as he watches Hannibal’s cock shake.

“Aaahhh,” Hannibal moans and his fingers tighten on the chair arms. He delves into a pocket, never looking away from Will who stares on in rapture. “Yes!” Hannibal gasps and catches the spill of his seed in the white handkerchief he’s pulled from his pocket. He blinks several times, swallows and then licks his lips.

Will’s mouth hangs open as Hannibal tucks himself away. “It’s all about control for you, isn’t it?” He says at last.

“Would that be such a terrible thing?” Hannibal returns. Hannibal places the handkerchief on the table in front of Will, well within his reach. Will dips a finger into the stickiness and his eyes travel back in his head. Hannibal has also moved his arms closer on the table, close enough for Will to reach out and touch over his scars, which he does with his index and middle fingers, gently, as if he is tracing a crack in a delicate piece of porcelain.

“You are a terrible thing,” Will says through clenched teeth. He bends over far enough so he can touch his fingers to his lips. First the one that shines with Hannibal’s come, he rubs across his bottom lip, and then the ones that touched Hannibal’s scar he kisses lightly with his top lip. Looking up and into Hannibal’s eyes, Will sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and shudders as he tastes Hannibal’s intimate fluid enter his own system.

Hannibal watches Will’s tortured theater with an almost bemused curiosity. At last he speaks. “Anyway, it is a shame I cannot return the pleasure. You would do well to relax a bit and there is nothing so relaxing as a full release. Perhaps you’ll consider me later as you lie alone in your cot.” Hannibal stands and plucks the handkerchief from the table. He folds it neatly and puts it back in his pocket with a smirk. He puts on his jacket and then his overcoat. “It was delightful to see you, Will. No doubt we will be together again very soon.” He walks to the door and knocks for the guards to allow his exit.

“Hannibal,” Will says. “I see you.”

Hannibal looks back over his shoulder. He smiles, but sadly. “Yes, Will, I suppose you do.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter of hate sex over the dinner table that you didn't ask to be served, but are going to get anyway...   
> (sorrynotsorry. . .)

Over the sizzling pan, Hannibal remarks, “Time passes much more quickly when one is happy and enjoying oneself.” Will looks up from the ginger he is not so much slicing as mangling. Hannibal catches his gaze and drifts into it for but a moment prior to asking, “Do you not agree, Will?” 

“I suppose,” Will begins and returns his attention to the ginger. Hannibal moves the pan over the burner with and expert hand. Will waits for the scratching noise of pan against burner to cease, then continues without looking up, “It certainly passes much more quickly beneath your roof than it did beneath the roof of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. 

“Ahh,” Hannibal sighs with a plump pout. He steps from the stove and examines the wine he has set to breathe in a glass carafe. With a practiced swirl, he decides it is ready. He pours two glasses, hands one to Will, and raises his. “To your freedom,” he mouths and brings his glass to his nose so he can nuzzle its aroma. 

“Am I though,” Will asks after a swallow of wine. “Free? Or have I merely escaped one cage for another?” He sniffs a sardonic laugh and puts a hand on Hannibal’s hip. He sets his wine down on the counter so he can use his other hand to grasp Hannibal’s waist. But Hannibal merely sips his wine with an almost disinterested glance to the side. 

“Do you feel ensnared here, Beloved,” Hannibal coos. “Has your pretty leg been caught in a trap that holds you? Holds you very tight, and close, and still?” 

“Yes,” Will breathes over Hannibal’s face. He bares he teeth as he takes the glass from Hannibal’s hand and sets it on the counter next to his own. 

“Is it painful?”

“Yes.”

“But are you. . . content, Beloved? Happier than you’ve ever been, even, to be so caught?” Hands free from the goblet of wine, Hannibal caresses Will’s face and neck. His voice is serpentine as it flows through Will’s ears. The meat sizzles in the background. 

“Yes,” Will exhales and roughly pulls Hannibal’s hips against his as he reaches his lips up to catch Hannibal’s which are no longer disinterested and smile, full and wet. He backs Hannibal into the stainless steel surface of the fridge as he mashes their lips together. He thrusts his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth and sweeps it greedily over his teeth and gums, over the back of his tongue and over his cheeks, searching out every flavor and texture he can gather. He grabs Hannibal’s ass, hard, gives him a foreshadowing of what will soon come, and grinds himself on Hannibal’s thigh. 

While he almost always happily complies with Will’s needs to release his anger and frustration toward him, it is a most inconvenient time. Hannibal chuckles, “The meat will overcook. We would not want to dishonor our slim, young pig, would we?” He watches the flush burn on Will’s face and neck and delights in the manner with which Will bites his own lip until it bleeds. 

Hannibal cannot be certain which he loves more- the raging energy of Will’s anger and hate toward him, or the unbridled devotion and adoration Will begrudgingly cannot hide. As he takes the ginger and mixes it with some garlic and oil, he decides it is impossible to separate the two. Together, they create a unique and complex profile he’s utterly fixed on, like a sailor on a course of moon and stars. 

It will be hard, waiting through supper, but to delay gratification is always a worthy endeavor. He decides upon this with a twitch of his eyebrows toward Will’s snarl. 

The days that have passed with Will by his side, in his home, have been bigger bliss than Hannibal ever dreamed of knowing. And the nights with his boy, sleeping satisfied beside him, have brought him a taste of something sweet. Hannibal marks the passing of time by preparing elaborate desserts and bringing them, along with gifts, up to the attic, to Abigail. He tells her stories while Will is at work, feeds her imagination and satisfies any sense of impatience festering in either of them. When he is able to so so, he sneaks Abigail out of the house and brings her to the place he readies. They pass the time, crafting their surprise as though they prepare for Christmas. 

Hannibal places each moment into its own room in his Memory Palace. Each memory is deserving of its own special place for timeless retrospection and wonder. 

Meanwhile they dance, on blades of grass or blades of a knife. It matters not. The revelation will be so grand; Will will fall over with joy and gratitude. All of Hannibal’s previous transgressions will be forgotten as he leads Will on one arm and Abigail on the other through the eternal number of rooms he has created for them. 

And in darkness, they will finally feel other things, he and Will, as they twist around one another. 

But for now, they eat in the strange, strangled space between hate and love, and they fuck in some bewildered, bizarre bed between despair and joy. It is an uncanny cohabitation, but it is theirs. 

At some point in the meal, Hannibal beams with pride at Will and says, “This meat is not pork.” Will offers a tight smile and concedes that no, the meat is definitely not pork. Will pushes his chair back from the table, and rises with a glow of hostility on his face that makes Hannibal shiver and put down his fork. Will is still chewing as he rounds the table to Hannibal’s place. 

“Stand up,” Will hisses. 

“I’m not done eating,” Hannibal taunts. They are both being uncommonly rude. 

“I’m done waiting,” Will says. 

“Very well,” Hannibal clears his throat. He dabs at his mouth with his napkin, folds it, and stands. “Shall we to the boudoir?” Will shakes his head. He removes Hannibal’s dinner jacket and makes haste to unfasten Hannibal’s belt, buttons and zipper. Then he yanks Hannibal’s pants down and bends him in his crisp, white shirt, over the dinner table. 

Hannibal gasps in a mix of dismay and amusement as he comes to rest in his own plate, and finds his shirt stained with his supper. He feels Will behind him, feels Will’s hands grab his ass and start to massage and spread. Will reaches over Hannibal for the cruet of olive oil. He pours some into his hand and starts to rub it into Hannibal’s muscular glutes, then inside. He’s delightfully quick and rough preparing Hannibal’s hole and Hannibal looks over his shoulder to find Will’s eyes are closed and his head thrown back as he allows his fingers to gentle and ghost over Hannibal’s heavy balls. Hannibal groans and spreads himself wider, relieved to finally hear Will unzip himself, thrilled to hear the slick of him stroking his cock with the oil. 

He pushes into Hannibal in one fast, steady motion, but as he does, he wraps his arm around Hannibal’s waist so he can grab and start stroking Hannibal’s achingly hard cock. With his other hand, he shoves Hannibal’s face down into his salad dish, which is empty but for a thin sheen of oil and vinegar which now coats Hannibal’s skin and hair. Hannibal grunts in a combination of pleasure and frustration as Will sets a punishing pace and a bottle of wine tips over on the table. 

Desperate to touch Will, Hannibal can only writhe and moan beneath him, pinned as he is against the table. He has never submitted for anyone in such a manner. He closes his eyes against the tumbling glasses and silverware and gives in to the waves of heated pleasure that are overtaking his entire body. Something shatters and he opens his eyes to find a chaffing dish has fallen to the floor and broken in large chunks. It is almost laughable. Hannibal knots his hands in the tablecloth and attempts to buck his hips back for a tighter join with Will. Will has sped up in his rhythm both inside Hannibal and in his hand over his leaking prick. Hannibal can feel him building to his climax. He cranes his neck against the arm that is holding him down so he can look back at Will. 

His fury is glorious. His eyes blaze indigo in the darkened dining room. His lips are set in a tight line of rage as he pounds himself into Hannibal. His sweat-dampened hair has come to frame his radiant face in a halo of amber ringlets. Hannibal would break his own neck to gaze upon the spectacle of this beautiful anger, this precious hate that teeters so perilously close to love. For this, Hannibal would submit eternally. As he lets go in Will’s endlessly pumping fist, he decides to share these thoughts with him, someday, when they are safely tucked away in their place with Abigail. 

Coming before Will seems to fan the flame of provocation and desire for Will, who continues to stroke Hannibal’s painfully sensitive prick with the ample supply of semen he’s produced, until at last Will falls over Hannibal’s back and bites his neck with a grunt and final series of thrusts. He slips out of Hannibal and turns him over. Hannibal now sits on the dinner table, Will between his legs. They cling to one another as Will cries. This is their routine. Will rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and touches his face. Hannibal’s come on Will’s hand mingles with the remnants of oil and vinegar on Hannibal’s face and in his hair, and the food and sauces on Hannibal’s shirt are pressed into Will’s as they embrace. 

“Come, now,” Hannibal says at last. He kisses Will’s forehead. “Let’s shower and I’ll bring you dessert in bed.” Will nods with a sniffle and allows himself to be led away from the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely LIVE and breathe for comments and LOVE to hear from people. I'm so monumentally touched that anyone would take time out of their busy day to stop by and read my stuff, so it is endlessly wonderful to hear from those who do. I adore getting to know people and to see who else is posting gorgeous Hannigram shaped miracles. xoxoxo.


	5. Chapter 5

He tries to focus on the small splashes Bedelia makes in her tub, and not on her whispered questions which echo in his ear.

_How did your sister taste? Why can’t you go home?_

He walks back to the bedroom and pours several fingers of amber elixir. He decides to take some air. He takes his bottle with him.

He hears Bedelia move in the bath from his post on the balcony. He takes a scotch and then another. His lips twitch with frustration. He drinks again. And then again. He returns to his room and travels the floor. At last, he tosses himself into a chair. When he tips his bottle, the ring of liquid wanes like a crescent moon.

When Will enters the room, it is with languid step. His feet are bare.

“You’re alive,” Hannibal’s greeting is mild, noncommittal. He glances up with his eyes, unwilling to expend the effort, or barely able to move his head.

“You knew I would be. They told me you cut me with surgical precision. You knew what you were doing. You didn’t want me to die.”“No,” Hannibal quivers as Will takes the glass from his hand, drains it and then sets it on a nearby table. “May I see?” Hannibal asks, but Will is already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his firm chest, and his hard abdomen. Hannibal swallows weakly as his eyes drift down to capture the silver snake that courses over Will’s stomach. He looks up to meet Will’s eyes, shore meets sea in eternal embrace. “May I. . . touch?”

“I’m surprised you’d bother to ask, Dr. Lecter.”

“It would be rude not to, Will.”

Will nods and slips his shirt off of his shoulders. In a sigh, it falls to the floor. Hannibal reaches out to touch the flesh of which he has so often dreamed. His fingers tremble and he looks up as if asking again for consent. Will tosses his shoulders back in a proud stance and says, “Go ahead. It’s your own work, after all.”

The scar is raised. It shimmers. It will be firm to touch but softer in texture than satin. “Stunning,” murmurs Hannibal, his fingers hovering above its surface. “It brings to mind the wild crest of a wave, sparkling in the sun, but far out in the sea where no one can truly appreciate its majesty.” His breath beats back to his face off of Will’s flesh, which is so close. So close.

“It’s yours,” Will says again. Hannibal drops his hand back to his lap. He glances up and finds Will gazes down upon him. Will cants his head, watches curiously what Hannibal will do next. Hannibal leans closer, sticks out his tongue and licks across the ridge of the scar. He feels Will shudder beneath his mouth, but he does not look up and he does not stop. He uses his tongue and his mouth to explore the scar, to nip its edges gently with his lips, to lap at its silken length, to kiss over the bumps where sutures have been removed. Will’s hands come to hold his head, and his fingers stroke through his delicate hair. At last, Hannibal raises his head and grasps the waistband of Will’s jeans. They gaze at one another with smug, bleary smiles. “Are you pleased with your work, Dr. Lecter?”

“Infinitely,” Hannibal says. A litany of verses build in him, but he’s speechless. His thumb continues to caress the scar and his fingers pull at Will’s pants until Will falls to his knees before him. With arms like a shepherd’s crook, Hannibal pulls his lost lamb close to him and holds his head against his heart. Then he takes Will’s face in his hands and tilts it up so he can tumble into the beautiful rage of his violent gaze. “I have made you almost perfect,” he murmurs at last, unable to manage much more for it seems every drop of blood has drained from his brain to his cock which is savagely erect.

“And I have made you in my image,” Will says in a strangled voice as he unbuttons Hannibal’s shirt and strokes his hands over his chest. He licks each of Hannibal’s nipples and then bites him hard. “I can feel how much you have changed in the beating of your heart, Dr. Lecter. It’s no longer so steady, although I believe you still have a great capacity for violence, don’t you?”

“I do,” Hannibal says in a grunt as Will frees him from the prison of his pants and starts to stroke him in a firm, fast fist. He smears the generous pre come that has leaked out already around Hannibal’s flaming head with his thumb and uses it to lubricate him. Hannibal arches with pleasure and moans. When Will stops suddenly, Hannibal hisses in displeasure as he is left throbbing almost painfully without Will’s hand around him. But he is quickly relieved when Will comes to straddle him, so his scar is level with Hannibal’s arousal. Urgently, Hannibal begins to rub himself against the shining injury. “Sublime, my Beloved,” he chokes and covers Will’s abdomen in a gleaming bath of semen.

He sleeps then, for some time, slumped over in the chair. From the bathroom he hears the noise of water and he dreams he is in a cave.

“Hannibal,” Bedelia’s voice stirs him. He wakes with his sticky cock encased in his own hand. Bedelia stands before him, wrapped in a towel. His neck is sore from the position in which he has been sleeping.


	6. Chapter 6

Trains never fail to provide solace for Hannibal. It’s been this way since he was a boy. Something about the steady rhythm and gentle rocking provides perfect stimulation for either thinking or numbing the mind entirely.

He finds himself alternately thinking and becoming dazed by the blurred landscape that passes outside his window. Golden countryside flies by and makes his eyes sleepy, but his mind works. His trek from Florence to Palermo will take the better parts of a day and a night. His traveling companion is silent and still in the cumbersome, black case at his feet.

Dimmond had not been a terrible fuck, nor had he been terrific. He had provided a moment of entertainment and release, Hannibal allows the man that at least. It makes him smile, even now, thinking about how slow, dim Dimmond had thought he’d had an upper hand, had thought he could twist or untwist Hannibal to his desire. Hannibal pats the black case as if it is a dog, as if to say, _there there, you pathetic creature._

“Shall we continue this conversation in my office?” Hannibal had asked.

“Indeed, Dr. Fell. Let’s,” Dimmond had said with a raise of his eyebrow and a flip of his scarf. Hannibal had no intention of romancing or of making it pretty for this pretty boy. He had simply shucked the fool’s pants down, turned him around, and bent him over his desk. He spread him open and used a couple pumps of lotion from a bottle on his desk to slick himself. While he wasn’t particularly concerned with the other man’s comfort, a dry fuck would not feel particularly delightful for Hannibal. He took him hard and fast and held his head down the entire time. From behind, Hannibal could have almost pretended that mop of brunette hair belonged to another. “Oh, oh fuck. I’m gonna. . . I’m so close! I don’t want to come on your desk,” he cried out as Hannibal pressed roughly into him. Hannibal covered Dimmond’s mouth with his hand. He didn’t want to hear his pretentious, English accent.

“Come on my desk. What do I care,” he hissed over Dimmond’s back as he pulled out almost entirely so he could ram himself back in to the hilt. Dimmond snaked his hand down to stroke himself off as Hannibal pounded against his sweet spot. Dimmond came first with a lot of moaning and bucking of his hips. Hannibal grabbed a fist full of his hair and pulled it hard as he rode him. He held off for as long as he could, with his own eyes squeezed shut, knowing the man would be sensitive and tender and wanting to make it hurt a bit for him. At last he had opened his eyes and directed his gaze to his a perfectly positioned sketch he’d done. Will had watched him blow his load deep into Dimmond’s ass and Hannibal had smiled into the crystalline eyes that could not possibly look away. With a soft grunt, he had pulled out, wiped himself, and invited Dimmond back home for dinner with Bedelia.

He recalls the crimson spatter of blood that had graced Bedelia’s cheek and considers the unnatural beauty of it. There is precious little red in the passing scenery beyond his window. He dozes for a while with this thought tucked against his mind and when he wakes, the sun has set. He considers going to the dining car for supper and wonders for what inelegant fare he will have to settle. The thought brings him back to his last meal with Abel Gideon. He can still hear the clanging of cutlery and crunch of shell as Gideon tried to wrangle the flesh of his snail out of its home. For whatever reason, he does not like this thought so he thinks instead of Bedelia decorated in blood.

Hannibal has loved two women in his life and Bedelia is not one of them. The incessant jostle of the train brings his sister to mind, how he would cradle and rock her in the winter of their discontent, how he sang to her right up until the end. He cannot think on Mischa without also thinking of Lady Murasaki, without conjuring the scent of oranges and orchids. He takes out a piece of paper and begins folding it into an origami crane. He uses up the spare sheets of paper he has making cranes, which he arranges along the window sill beside him. He pulls out of his pocket a picture of DiVinci’s Vitruvian Man. This he folds, but not into a bird. He twists and turns the paper, makes different folds until it resembles an anatomically correct human heart. Hannibal sighs and resumes his gaze out the window at passing night, into which both Mischa and Lady Murasaki have fled across a bridge of dreams.

If only either of these great loves had prepared him for what he now feels, for what he now carries and is so much heavier than the dark suitcase he must lug off the train and into the chapel at Palermo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somedays I can't believe anyone reads my little stories and it makes me really glad that you do. . . I'm eternally grateful that you're here. Really and truly. Thank you so much for reading what I write.


	7. Chapter 7

“What did you think? Seeing me kneel down in the snow and put my hands over my head in supplication for you?”

Will paces before the glass. He is reminded of being at an aquarium; of regarding something rare and exotic and utterly curious. Something so dangerous it must be kept behind inches of thick, impervious glass. 

Hannibal knows this. He places his hands behind his back and stands perfectly still, but for a subtle cock of his head. “You think me an animal, here, behind bars or glass as the case may be. Like a creature in a zoo. Yet you are the one who paces with a feral intensity of a species held against his own devices.”

Will pauses and his nostrils flare as he contemplates the lean, golden beast so close and yet so far from him. “How could you? My wife and child Hannibal? Are you that desperate to deprive me of even a burst of air in this world?” 

“Mmmh,” Hannibal presses his lips together and straightens his head on his neck. “We played this game before. Do you remember? The tables were turned then, of course, but it seems you have not learned that when one asks you a question it is unspeakably rude to answer their question. . . with. . . a . . . question, William.” He makes a point of swirling his name in his mouth like it is a mediocre wine for which he could care or care not, but he swallows anyway. 

“What the fuck do you want from me?” 

“For starters, I’d like for you to answer my question,” Hannibal chuckles. “What did you think when I surrendered?” 

“I thought you looked pathetic,” Will hisses without hesitation. “I hated the pitiful look in your eye. I found it puerile. Mundane.”

“Ah, there we are.”

“We are nowhere,” Will quips.

“And yet, we are everywhere. Are we not? Is there any moment of any day when your brain is not lined with the holy trinity of what we were, what we are, and what we yet could be?”

“Fuck you, Hannibal.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Hannibal tuts and runs one of his index finger over the other, repeatedly, like a child in a school yard. 

Will scoffs and says, “Truth is, you never would have given yourself up if I hadn’t turned you away, completely and utterly rejected your notion of holy trinity.” 

“Now,” Hannibal coos, “why would you ever say that. Here you are. Here I am. Happily ever after.” 

“You’re deluded!” Will whispers bitterly. “There is no happily ever after for either of us. There is just you, in a cage, ever after. And I swear to your ironic god of church disasters that if you ever go near my family again, I will end you.”

Hannibal inhales deeply. “Did the boy you reside with pick out your new aftershave? It has a smell of Christmas. Something that came in a gift set with a shower gel and a sponge or maybe some shaving cream? It isn’t any better than that noxious fragrance you wore before, and yet there is a certain charm to the way it mingles with the canine dander that is almost impossible to differentiate from your own aroma. No matter. When we get out of here, we’ll go to Paris and I will take you to my favorite boutique, where they will mix a signature blend for you. I’m thinking something with cedar and black pepper.” 

“We’re done here,” Will sighs and starts to walk to the door. 

“Only for now,” Hannibal says. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet. 

“Don’t you get it?” Will says with a scowl as he approaches the glass. “I hate you.” 

“I know,” Hannibal replies and walks to meet will at the clear barrier between them. “But wasn’t it nice to be together again?”

“Nice? No. Hannibal I hate you. I will never stop hating you.”

“Then I thank you, my good Will Graham.”

“What?”

Hannibal raises his right index finger to his mouth and bites into the side of it, near the nail bed. Blood blooms almost instantly. Hannibal uses his other hand to milk the crimson fluid up and then he raises his finger to the glass. “Love and anger are two feelings that are most closely related, you see,” he said and used his bloody finger to draw a circle on the glass. “Love begins where hate and anger ends in a cycle that is most intense, dynamic, and binding.” 

Will raises his hand to the glass and traces the circle of blood. He swallows hard. “You are twisted,” he mutters and tries to swallow again. He looks startled, unsettled, aroused. 

“Until next time then, Beloved,” Hannibal says. He brings his finger to his lips and sucks on it with a little smile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is the final chapter of this story. Thank you so much for reading.

“Do you remember snow?”

“Huh?” Will rolls lazily toward Hannibal.

“In the beginning. There was so much snow. Always snow. I close my eyes and it shatters my field of vision with brightness, like billions of falling stars, blinding with their intense light.”

“Baltimore was snowy that year,” Will concedes. He shifts onto his back, laces his fingers over his stomach, and stares up at the ceiling. He’s nearly lost track of where they are or what month it is now. It seems the places to which they travel are hot and bright and without any drastic change in season or weather. Will sighs.

“Are you retreating into your own memory palace?” Hannibal asks.

“It is more of a one room shack than a palace,” Will says. Hannibal’s eyebrows raise and he gives a little sniff. Will turns his head to look at him. “That’s your tell.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you sniffle like that and make that face, that’s your tell that you’re unhappy with me.”

“Whatever could I be unhappy with you about, Will?”

“You begrudge me the paltry shelter of a single thought that does not include you. You despise the notion that I might ever step beyond the confines of the fortress you have constructed for us, even for a moment. You are petty, Hannibal. Petty and jealous.”

Hannibal props his head up on his hand and looks down into Will’s savagely blue, unblinking eyes. He sees himself reflected there, tiny and shiny. He wastes no time attempting to deny the accuracy of Will’s accusation, rather lowers his lips and places them on the man below him. He tries to refrain from touching, to delay his hand’s gratification, and to simply allow his lips to soften and melt into the kiss. But it is not long before Will’s mouth opens and the kiss deepens and the twirling of tongues sends a message of urgency to his fingers which grab for Will’s jaw, his neck, his shoulders. Hannibal’s kisses hungrily. He bites and sucks and licks and thrills when he strokes his hand down to find Will is hard in response.

He never remembers the first time he kissed Will, because every kiss is their first kiss. Every time is their first time. And every time is also fraught with the sense it could be their last, which makes it flash and slice through them like lightening. Hannibal considers telling this to Will as he rubs the drops of pre cum from his head down to the sensitive spot beneath that makes him groan and arch up in Hannibal’s fist. Hannibal considers whispering his thoughts into the cave of Will’s ear as he nips at his lobe, but he does not.

“Petty and jealous,” Will growls again as he rides Hannibal’s hand. “And then you try to bait and switch by fucking me.”

“Well, it seems to be working,” Hannibal croons.

“Because you’ve broken me,” Will hisses.

“No. I’ve put you back together again,” Hannibal insists. Will does not engage in their typical wrestling match to see who will dominate, rather he allows Hannibal to spread his knees wide and sink into him without any resistance. “See how you need it, Will? See how you need me?” Hannibal pulls back slowly and Will whimpers. Will reaches around to place his hands on Hannibal’s ass and pulls him back in, hard and fast. Hannibal throws his head back and groans out a laugh at how good it feels, then starts to pump himself in and out of Will’s tight, hot hole. Will’s erection throbs against Hannibal’s abdomen with every thrust and it does not take long before he ejaculates a warm ribbon between them. Aroused to the point of fever by the sensation of Will’s seed on his belly, Hannibal presses on with quicker, more intense strokes until at last he clutches at Will’s neck and comes apart as deep inside of him as he can manage.

They doze until hunger demands they do something about dinner. “You think you won that round?” Will smirks.

“Win or lose. It doesn’t really matter,” Hannibal says. They climb into the shower together and clean off the scent and spendings of their earlier exertions. “What do you think about going to Paris for Christmas?” Hannibal asks suddenly.

“There would be snow, maybe.” Will states simply. It isn’t necessarily a yes or a no. Hannibal stands under the warm spray of the shower and looks at Will. Will looks back. The minuscule reflections of Hannibal glint off of Will’s eyes.

— the end—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all your comments so very much. I hope you liked the happily ever after of sorts I decided to offer for these two fools. Much love to you all. xoxoxo. This is the penultimate fandom. I am amazed at how prolific and talented the Fannibals are and I am just so humbled that I got to play here. . . Thanks to everyone who read and commented. I adore you.


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